


Lost in Translation

by Old FF Stuff (VergofTowels)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon, Character Death, Ficlet, Fluff, Graphic Violence, M/M, Many different little AUs, Origin Stories, Pictures, Sickfic, Smoking, The following apply to one or few:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 10,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/Old%20FF%20Stuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it's impossible to find the word you need to say it all... in English. Nineteen ficlets based on untranslatable words.</p><p>If you read only one, read "Ilunga."  It's my favorite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mamihlapinatapei

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published 10/19/10.
> 
> Mamihlapinatapei. Tierra Del Fuego. "The wordless, yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start."

It is something she will be glad to get used to, the prick of the needle sliding into her wrist. She still feels a twinge of pain and the instinctual urge to cringe away when Yusuf holds it out to her. She had a fear of needles when she was younger. When she was three, she had her shots and the doctor kept losing her vein and having to do it again. The others can do it almost without looking, finding the ideal spot with careful fingers. She watches them meld with the PASIV one by one, talking and laughing and slipping needles into their blood.

She forgets about it when she is under, lost in the world of dreams and desire. Here, she is all-powerful, building and destroying. She is giddy like God. Sometimes she forgets that she can still die. The others have no problem reminding her of the fact; their projections do not ignore her just because she is the architect. Mostly it is by bullet. Once or twice it was by brute strength and she woke up gasping.

This time it is needles.

The dream hospital's staff come at her with syringes, strapping her down, stabbing her until-

Until she wakes up, dry-mouthed and breathing too hard. She cannot speak. The weight of her totem in her palm keeps her from screaming.

It is then that she sees Arthur and Eames. The two of them had been out on reconnaissance when they started the dream, only just returned from the look of it. They drop their jackets over their chairs and stand on either side of Arthur's desk. She is too far away to hear them speak, and the words are not hers anyway, but still she has to stare.

 _The way they are looking at each other…_ But… just looking. Not touching. Eames licks his lips. Arthur turns away.

Ariadne hears a distant voice asking _"Have you ever been a lover?"_ and she shivers.


	2. Toska

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toska. Russian. "No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom."

His hands move over the bedspread, smoothing down wrinkles and smoothing out creases and never making any progress. The sheets are never pristine, no matter how many times he presses them. He sometimes wonders why he does it. But he keeps on doing it. Just like how he tucks the covers under the mattress in military style, straightening with a stiff back like someone is watching.

His room is small, but it has two windows. One of the windows looks out across the lawn and to the parking lot. Every day at every hour, cars come and go. Sometimes he counts them, red one day blue the next, or sports cars, or vans. He looks at the little people and makes up stories about them. He never remembers them later, but it's something to do.

The other window looks down at the rest of the building.

He washes both windows once a week. It isn't his job, but he doesn't have a job, as far as he can tell, and it keeps him busy. No one else would do it. No one else comes in the room, except Betty, and she never stays long.

He is so… something. Angry? Confused? Upset, sad, lost?

 _Tired._ So tired.

Every day is the same.

Until one day it isn't. He looks up when the door opens, expecting Betty, but instead it is a man. A man of a height with him with broad shoulders, gray eyes, and the lips of a model. He's also sporting at least two days of stubble and a hangdog, hungover look. He's wearing a nametag that says "Eames."

"Arthur," Eames says. "Hello, darling."

"I'm no one's darling," he replies. He stands across the room and folds his arms. Something is wrong. He feels unsteady. He moves his hand to the wall to reassure himself.

Eames does not stay long. They talk, but Arthur forgets what about. Soon he forgets about the visit. Sooner, he forgets the man named Eames.

But he feels so frustrated! He paces, for hours, until he settles by his bed. His hands move over the bedspread, smoothing down wrinkles and smoothing out creases and never making any progress. The sheets are never pristine, no matter how many times he presses them.

He sometimes wonders why he does it.


	3. Iktsuarpok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iktsuarpok. Inuit. ""To go outside to check if anyone is coming."

Eames smoked. To ease the tension that came with his job, to give him a little burst of alertness when he was gambling, to have something to do with his hands and his mouth. He knew the risks. He laughed when well-meaning citizens tried to inform him of them. Who were they to tell _him_ about risks?

Eames smoked, but not religiously. He smoked maybe six a day, depending on the day. He didn't need a weakness. He didn't need a dependency. He certainly didn't need withdrawal if he happened to get caught somewhere. He needed to be sharp, and independent.

He had smoked almost two packs today.

"Would you please just relax?" Ariadne asks, half exasperated and half concerned. She doesn't look up from her Sudoku when she says "He's coming."

"I know," Eames says, taking a sip of his coffee, drumming his fingers on the table, touching his totem (yes, for good measure). He pats the folded-up, muddied piece of paper on the table. He remembers what it says by heart.

_I'm on my way. Don't wait up. See you soon. Arthur._

Eames looks out the window at the landscaped shrubs and the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. This booth doesn't give him a very good view of the street. He stands.

"Where are you going?" Ariadne scribbles a seven into her puzzle, biting her lip in concentration.

"Outside," he says. "I need a smoke."


	4. Jayus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jayus. Indonesian. "A joke so poorly told and so unfunny that one cannot help but laugh."

When Arthur wakes, he is cold. It isn't an unusual occurrence; he has low blood pressure, and he has a tendency to kick the covers to the end of the bed in the night. A combination of unremembered nightmares and a subconscious desire to make it easy to flee. You aren't safe when you're asleep. Not in this profession. He shivers and gropes for the clock on the bedside table. It's only seven.

He gets up, disentangling himself from sheets that still smell like sex. He wanders into the bathroom, splashes some water on his face, takes a piss. He lets his fingers trail along the countertop, though already he sees that there is no note. Eames's toothbrush is gone as well. Well, there isn't anything he can do about that.

He showers and dresses in silence. It is just a normal day, he keeps telling himself. But he can't seem to muster the right attitude for a suit. He's in slacks and a button-down, a sweater-vest over the top.

He is still cold.

He walks across the room to collect his electronics and pack them away. He will be gone before breakfast. Halfway there, he catches his foot on something and almost falls, grabbing the edge of the bed to keep from kissing the carpet. Scowling, he looks back.

There is a suitcase shoved half under the bed.

"Eames…?"

The hotel room door opens with a click that sounds so loud in the silence that Arthur's reaching for his shoulder, for the Glock that he can't legally carry in this country.

"I'm afraid they were all out of blueberry muffins, but I did manage to get you a cranberry bagel," Eames says, shouldering into the room, a white paper bag of baked goods held securely in both of his arms. "It was bloody difficult, though. You know those are imported here?" He deposits the food on the table, planting a solid kiss on Arthur's mouth as he walks by.

Arthur just sighs and starts quietly laughing.


	5. Tartle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tartle. Scottish. "The act of hesitating while introducing someone because you've forgotten their name."

They meet in a bar.

OR

They meet in a parking lot.

OR

They meet poolside in a fancy hotel, Arthur uncomfortable in his expensive three-piece suit, his collar sticking to his neck in the heat. He isn't used to dressing so well and he still privately thinks he can't pull it off, despite Mr. Cobb's smiling reassurance. He is drinking a Kir Royale. He is only twenty.

The man he is meeting climbs out of the water.

OR

The man he is meeting slides up to the bar and orders a rum and coke.

OR

The man he is meeting gets out of a blue car and talks to the staff by the gate, winning his way through to the patio, no room card or ID in sight. He sidles up to Arthur and holds out a hand, cheeky, examining the tailored nip of Arthur's waist and the trousers that accentuate his legs with a critical eye.

"Charmed," he says.

OR

"Cheers."

OR

Grinning, "Hello, darling."


	6. Prozvonit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prozvonit. Czech. "To call a mobile phone and let it ring once so that the other person will call back, saving the first caller money."

It feels like he's in a movie, sometimes. He's not sure who would want to watch such a film, but whoever is directing it belongs in an asylum. It happens like this: boy meets boy, boy marries boy, boy never sees boy again.

This is actually a lie.

He sees Arthur plenty. They work together, after all, and when you are the best there is only one circle you can move in. They set up in abandoned buildings, ritzy rooms, a rented seaside cottage. Once they actually work out of a movie theatre that has been closed for renovations.

Eames thinks that this is when it starts. When _the game_ starts.

Arthur starts calling him. Arthur called him before, for work of course, and occasionally just to say hello. Arthur is bad at leaving messages. He always comes on exasperated, relaying information like Eames should already know it, even if all he's saying is he'd like to get together soon. The subsequent messages are always apologetic, even when he's done nothing wrong.

These calls are different.

Eames is sitting outside a thrift store in Paris, eating a delicious meal that is absorbing most, if not all of his attention. His phone rings. Once. He checks the number later and finds that he missed Arthur. He tries to call back and gets static.

It happens again in Prague, a week later. The next week, in Rome. If it weren't for Cobb's earnest and bemused guarantee that Arthur is with him, safe and healthy, Eames would be going out of his mind. As it is, he can barely concentrate. Arthur calls at odd times of day, like he _wants_ Eames to miss him, and the forger has grown obsessed with his cell, hoping that it will ring when he has it in his hand.

In Ireland, in May, he is standing outside a pub, slightly drunk and thumbing through the photos on his phone, his palm itching for a vibration that doesn't come. Instead, the pay phone behind him rings shrilly. Eames goes for it like it's air.

"Hello?"

 _"Mr. Eames."_ It's Arthur's voice, smooth but for the barely-perceptible warble of captive laughter. _"Four Seasons, Dublin. Twenty minutes. Don't be late."_ He hangs up.

It's like the kidnappers have finally told him where the drop point is. Eames hurriedly flags a cab and climbs in.

He had better get a king's ransom.


	7. Tingo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tingo. Pascuense. "The act of taking objects one desires from the house of a friend by gradually borrowing all of them."

There was a cool touch on his forehead and Eames opened his eyes, blinking blearily. After a moment, Arthur's face swam into focus above him and he smiled. Arthur seemed to take this as some sort of insult; he frowned, his sharp eyebrows drawing together, and let out a sigh. His hand slipped away and Eames shivered.

"Have you recovered at all?" the point man asked briskly, leaving Eames's field of vision. Eames could hear him walking to the other side of the bedroom, probably to the desk.

He cleared his throat. "I don't know." He shifted on the bed so he could see Arthur rummaging through the drawers of his writing desk. It was a nice piece, antique, and it suited Arthur well. Everything in Arthur's apartment suited him. Eames liked to think he was among those things. There was no doubt that Arthur disagreed strongly. It was only because Eames was useful occasionally that he'd opened the door in the first place.

"Have you eaten anything?" Arthur was looking at him with the same irritated expression that he'd been wearing when Eames had collapsed on his steps the previous evening. Eames tried not to take it personally.

"Nothing I haven't seen again," he rasped, trying to curl tighter into Arthur's comforter.

"Charming." Arthur shook his head. "Well, you should drink some water or something. I'll get you a glass."

"Thank you." Eames met Arthur's eyes. "I mean it. I'd probably be dead in a gutter somewhere if you hadn't let me in." He coughed dryly.

Arthur didn't answer, but he did pause in the doorway. "I'll get you another blanket," he said, and left the room.

Eames had that blanket folded in the linen closet of his London apartment.

-aaa-

Arthur picked up the remote and turned the TV off, right in the middle of the game, flopping down on the couch beside Eames and reaching over to the coffee table where he'd left his laptop. He ignored Eames's incredulous look, settling his computer and typing in his password.

"Arthur!" Eames cried. "You can't just-"

"Yes, I can," he declared. "I need to concentrate. I don't need soccer on in the background."

"It's _football,_ you nitwit," said Eames, aggravated. "If you were going to keep working, you should have stayed at the warehouse." He made a grab for the remote, but Arthur stopped him with a death-grip on his wrist. "Ow."

"If you're so bored, you can look over those files I sent you."

Eames shook his head, pulling away and standing up. He went over to the bed, opening the small black suitcase that he'd dropped on it earlier. Arthur saw him pull out a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter.

"You shouldn't smoke," Arthur chided absently.

"You're a hypocrite," Eames rejoined. Arthur had explained to him, in detail, exactly how much he had loved weed in college the last time they'd been drunk together. He stepped out onto the balcony of their hotel room and lit up, leaning against the open door.

 _"Eames."_ Arthur shot him a look. "Close the door. It's cold enough in here already."

The forger scoffed and pulled off his jacket, tossing it haphazardly toward the couch. It hit Arthur in the face.

There had ensued quite the fight, and somehow Arthur had ended up sleeping across town in a room of his own. The jacket was still hanging in the hall closet of his home in Paris.

-aaa-

Eames's kitchen cabinets contained five plain white plates, three cups, and a dented coffee mug. Also Arthur's Kate Spade Belle Boulevard dinnerware.

Arthur's desk was neatly organized and clean. On top of it were a desk lamp, a printer, and five or six of Eames's green glass paperweights, each bearing a different encouraging word (in Russian) in gold lettering.

Eames kept his towels on a rack in the master bathroom. The blue ones were all his, bought on a whim when he was outfitting the place. He'd been feeling domestic. The wine-red one on the middle rung belonged to Arthur. He didn't know how long it had been there.

Arthur lined his shoes up at the bottom of the closet, each pair in its proper place. Dress shoes took up the most space, but he did actually own a pair of sneakers, and snow boots. There was a worn pair of leather loafers in the corner. They were too big for Arthur by half a size. They fit Eames fine.

-aaa-

"Et- _chxx!"_

"Bless you!" Eames waved a hand to clear some of the dust out of the air. "I suppose it has been a while since I've opened the place." He reached over and flipped the switch on the wall. The lights flickered on.

"We'll get someone in to clean," Arthur said, sneezing again. "I hope you draped the furniture at least." He sniffed and walked through into the living room.

"Of course!" Eames followed him. "I'm not _totally_ simple, darling. Bless you again, by the way." He paused. "Are you allergic?"

"Sort of, I suppose." Arthur moved over to one of the arm chairs and carefully pulled back the sheet. Then he stared. "This… This is my chair!"

"What?" Eames inspected it. "Well, you had one a lot _like_ it in New York, but-"

"No, no 'like' about it," Arthur stared. "This is the exact same chair. How did you-? No, that's not what I want to ask." He rounded on Eames suspiciously. _"Why_ do you have this chair?"

Eames shrugged. "I was in the area, and you haven't been to New York in years, not to stay anyway. I thought it looked a bit lonely."

"You thought it looked- Hmph!" Arthur dropped the cloth and went about the room pulling off the other ones. Eames just watched serenely as Arthur revealed his NYC living room, relocated now to Eames's house in the British countryside.

"You took _all_ of my furniture…" Arthur said, amazed. "I can't believe you." He frowned heavily. Or perhaps he was just going to sneeze again; he _had_ stirred up quite the haze.

"Bless you," said Eames, taking the last slipcover from Arthur as the point man pitched forward. He put a hand on the small of Arthur's back. "Why don't we stay in a hotel tonight? Or you won't get any sleep." Not that he was intending to let Arthur sleep anyway, but still.

"We aren't done discussing this," Arthur protested as Eames propelled him out of the room. "How much more of my stuff have you stolen?"

"Probably about as much as you've taken from me," Eames hummed. He forestalled Arthur's complaint with a finger to his lips. "My whole luggage set, my library of poetry, at least half of my French films." He smiled as Arthur closed his mouth. "But I think it worked out for the best. After all, I have the last thing I wanted now." He locked the door to the house.

"And that is what?" Arthur asked, looking somewhat cowed.

"You, of course." Eames grinned. "Now where should we eat?"


	8. Litost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Litost. Czech. "A state of agony and torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery."
> 
> Past major character death.

"Arthur. Arthur, open the door!" Cobb was distressed, bordering on angry. "Do _not_ make me break it down."

"What's gotten into you?" Arthur slid back the chain and unlocked the door, opening it wide enough to frame his pale face and sunken eyes. "Have you been drinking?"

"No, of course not." Cobb pushed the door further, putting a hand on Arthur's shoulder and moving him aside, stepping into the apartment. It was a mess; every available surface was covered with paper, and Arthur had drawn on each sheet. Buildings, mostly. Hands and eyes and the curve of a broad shoulder. The balcony doors had been pushed aside and it was raining in. "Have you?" He crossed the room and slid the glass shut, cutting off the storm.

"No." Arthur stood in the foyer where Cobb had left him, arms hanging at his sides. He was wearing a suit without the jacket. His tie was loose and draped crookedly. "What's wrong?"

"Have you looked at yourself, lately?" Cobb folded his arms and was still. Outside it thundered dully, the rain a steady drone.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"He's been gone for two years," Cobb continued mercilessly. "You need to move on, Arthur." He wasn't sure what he expected, but Arthur's blank stare wasn't it. The younger man was gazing past him and out the window, distracted. "Arthur!"

"I know, Dom, I know!" Arthur sighed, tearing his gaze away from the gunmetal sky. "Every day I feel it here." He laid a hand across his chest and swallowed visibly. "Every day. Dom." He took an unsteady breath. "I judged you. But I understand now. I do. Just let me deal with it."

Cobb glanced away, trying to master himself. When he spoke, it was very careful. "Arthur, I can't do that."

Arthur stared. "Just go. I'm okay. I get it."

"No, Arthur."

 _"Why not?"_ He was angry now, teeth bared. "I didn't ask you to come here, I didn't ask for your help. Go find somewhere else to-"

"Because you look like Mal, Arthur!" Cobb shouted it, shaking.

"…What?"

"Put down the knife, Arthur."

Arthur looked down at his right hand. Clenched in white fingers was a long knife, meant for cutting vegetables. "I didn't…"

"Put it down."

Arthur dropped it. "Dom, I wouldn't… I wasn't going to…"

"I know." Cobb took a tentative step forward, and when Arthur didn't react, another, and another. "It just isn't real anymore, is it?" He put his arms around Arthur's shoulders.

Suddenly all of the fight went out of him. He collapsed into the embrace, burying his face in Cobb's shoulder. "Every morning, Dom, I take my totem and I throw it on the goddamn floor and it doesn't- And he's not- And I'm always so cold… I don't know how to do this anymore." He was crying, for the first time since the funeral. "Does it get better? How can it?"

Cobb carefully patted his back, feeling his own throat go tight. "It does. But you'll never stop missing him."

"I don't want to, Dom." Arthur's face was hot and the wet silk of Cobb's shirt was clinging to his cheek. He made to pull away but Cobb wouldn't let him yet, holding him for just a second longer. They parted slowly. "I don't want to."


	9. Cafuné

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cafuné. Brazilian Portuguese. "The act of tenderly running one's fingers through someone's hair."

"I miss you," says Arthur, a soft admission as he sits on the corner of the bed. He almost never says it, never confesses anything. Eames sighs and turns and runs a hand over his face.

"I know." It feels like they haven't talked in months. Eames lays a hand on the coverlet, but he doesn't touch Arthur.

It feels like they haven't touched in months.

Arthur lies down, but he cannot feel the heat of Eames beside him. He's facing the wall. Eames is staring up at the ceiling. "James," he breathes, and puts his fingers to his temples.

"I'm still here, Arthur. Right here."

"It isn't the same." Arthur slips his fingers up and into his hair, washed and dried and curling, free about his pale face. He gently separates the tufts, combing it back, flattening it. He feels so tense. "I _miss_ you," he says again into the phone. He glances out the window at the New York City skyline, glowing in the dark.

"I'll be back in the States soon," Eames says, and stands up. He fixes his tie one-handed and half-glances at the mirror. Then he glances at his watch and sighs. "I'm meeting the client for breakfast, so I'll have to call you back." He pauses. "I love you. Try and get some sleep."

"I'll try," murmurs Arthur. "And I love you, too."


	10. Kyoikumama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kyoikumama. Japanese. "A mother who relentlessly pushes her children toward academic achievement."

**Fairview Psychological Center**

**Date:** 10/3/2011  
 **Patient:** Arthur E. DeLacey  
 **Birthday:** 11/12/2001  
 **Parent Signature:** Cherise DeLacey

 **Preliminary Interview**  
 **Attending Doctor:** Dr. Maxwell Cox, PhD.

Dr. Cox: How are you today, Arthur?  
Patient: Good, I guess.  
Cox: Good. How is school going?  
Patient: Fine.  
Cox: I see here that you are doing well in all of your subjects.  
Patient: Yeah.  
Cox: Do you like math?  
Patient: No.  
Cox: You like history, or science?  
Patient: No.  
Cox: Surely you like English?  
Patient: No, I don't.  
Cox: Do you not like school?  
Patient: I like art.

 **Notes:** Patient is wary of making eye contact, patient's attention strays, patient had to be asked to speak up several times.

\---

_Written on a desk in Brett Primary School, Charleston, SC:_

[](http://s288.photobucket.com/user/VergofTowels/media/KyoikumamaDeskIllustration.png.html)

\---

_Sent home to Cherise DeLacey:_

[](http://s288.photobucket.com/user/VergofTowels/media/TeacherNote-1.jpg.html)

\---

_Arthur DeLacey's third quarter report card:_

[](http://s288.photobucket.com/user/VergofTowels/media/ReportCard.jpg.html)

\---

_Torn page found near a recycle bin in Boston, MA:_

[](http://s288.photobucket.com/user/VergofTowels/media/Drawing-2.jpg.html)

\---

_Sent home with Arthur DeLacey:_

[](http://s288.photobucket.com/user/VergofTowels/media/Detention-3.jpg.html)

\---

_Found in a briefcase in a Boston train station:_

[](http://s288.photobucket.com/user/VergofTowels/media/VolunteerEnlistment-1.jpg.html)

\---

_Found in the briefcase of Dominic Cobb:_

[](http://s288.photobucket.com/user/VergofTowels/media/PASIV-1.jpg.html)

\---

_Posted November 18th, 2030:_

[](http://s288.photobucket.com/user/VergofTowels/media/NewsPage2.png.html)

\---

_Napkin found in the pocket of a gray suit jacket left in a motel room near LAX:_

[](http://s288.photobucket.com/user/VergofTowels/media/EamesNapkinNote.png.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the quality of some of these, and my poor handwriting. They were created in haste a while ago. :P


	11. Schadenfreude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schadenfreude. German. "The feeling of pleasure derived from seeing another's misfortune."

Eames starts to laugh when Benjamin and his followers have been gone for ten minutes, a slow, ironic chuckle that's just loud enough to get on Arthur's nerves. "This is funny," Eames finally says, settling again. His chains clink softly, but it echoes around the warehouse.

"Hilarious, yes," says Arthur through chattering teeth. Eames still has his shirt on, but they took Arthur's so they could cut his chest.

"Hey, now," says Eames. "Here." He uses his good foot to push a tarp toward Arthur, nudging the plastic up as far as he can. "Better?"

Arthur is the one who laughs this time, but it is pained. "How long, do you think?"

"…Not sure." Eames tries and fails to shrug. He rests his leg against Arthur's in the most intimate gesture he can make. "Not long, I hope." It is an obvious statement, but Arthur lets it slide, too tired to comment. Outside the light is failing on day three of their imprisonment. Inside, they talk together in hushed voices, trying to stay awake and waiting to wake up.


	12. Torschlusspanik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torschlusspanik. German. "The fear of diminishing opportunities as one ages."

It was dark in the room, the only illumination a dim light on in the bathroom down the hall and the occasional glow of headlights moving across the ceiling before disappearing like a ghost. The only sounds were the steady murmur of faraway traffic and Eames's soft snores. Arthur slipped another button closed on his shirt. He hadn't been able to find his boxer-briefs, or his tie, but he supposed it didn't really matter. He'd lost a lot of clothes to his flings with Eames. He could just replace them.

Eames made a querulous noise and Arthur laid a hand on his ankle to quiet him.

Arthur stood to pull on his slacks, stepping blindly, ungraceful in post-coital exhaustion, into each leg and tugging them up. His fingers were rough at the fly and he had to pause and cover a yawn before he managed the zipper. He didn't bother to tuck in his shirt, just padded across the room to where he'd left his briefcase and his shoes.

There were still dishes on the table from the room service earlier, smelling faintly of curry and jasmine rice. Sometime after dinner the empty wine bottle had fallen on its side. Arthur righted it as he gathered his things.

He looked back once as he laid his hand on the doorknob. Eames was a curve under the sheet, lit now by the window and dark again. Arthur cocked his head and heard Eames saying-

_I want to fuck you, and I want you to fuck me._

_I have a bottle and a bedroom._

_Arthur, I'm sorry, I-_ and _Mal, God rest her soul._

_I'll show you imagination, darling._

_Would you like to come over?_

-heard Eames saying _Arthur, please_ in the hotel lobby, like he knew Arthur had better places to be but wanted him anyway, in any way he could have him.

Arthur put down his briefcase.

His side of the bed had grown cold since he had moved, but Eames was a ready source of heat at his back. Arthur curled up against him with a sigh, discarding his shirt once more on the carpet. He wasn't sure what would happen in the morning, but as his eyes slipped closed, he decided he didn't care. It was better to risk an awkward morning after than to lose his last chance to have one.


	13. Ilunga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ilunga. Tshiluba. "The stature of a person 'who is ready to forgive and forget any first abuse, tolerate it the second time, but never forgive nor tolerate on the third offense.'"

It begins in Venice on a rainy night, a shared cigarette the only pinpoint of light in the shadows of a narrow walkway. Fingers brush in the exchange of paper and tobacco. Lips brush in the exchange of smoky air. Hands link around the lower back, and anyone passing – though there is no one – would understand the words offered up to the damp dark, soundless as they are.

For three years time passes in this way.

Then, there is a fracture. There is the empty space on the right side of the bed, or the left. A cold sheet. Suspicions. No time. No tears (he says). Nothing there (they say). Anyone passing – and all the faceless crowds are passing – would understand the words flung out into the airless morning, thoughtless as they are.

\---

It begins in New York, a telephone ringing to shatter the lonely silence of an apartment. Someone is waking to answer it, blinking wearily into late afternoon sunlight through the parted yellow curtains. Fingers brush the coverlet back. Lips touch tongue in the exchange of cautious words. They agree to meet – for business reasons only – in his hotel lobby at five. Friends will be there. Let's talk cash.

They dream.

They share a cab and take the road less traveled, passing a cigarette back and forth, ignoring the no-smoking sign and giving the cabbie a few extra dollars. There could be someone following them, but they don't seem to care. The tension is not for paranoia.

Standing on the sidewalk in front of the apartment, under a broken streetlamp, someone says I'm sorry. Fingers grip tightly a clean white shirt. Mouths are crushed together. They forget the empty spaces and fill them again, painting over the cracks. The mad old man who is passing throws an apple at them as they hasten to the steps, mumbling about the end of the world.

For two years time passes in this way.

His watch stopped keeping time (he says), and wasted hours sitting with a candle are forgiven. They are not forgotten. They walk on eggshells, turning and turning to face each other. When did watching his back become looking for an opportunity? They don't even yell when they pack their bags. The young girl who is passing counts taxis, one and two, that leave the building in her boredom.

\---

It begins in Marrakech. By chance they meet in the _Assembly of the Dead,_ following the same pale-faced man for different sums. Shoulders brush as they go together, and when the man is dead, they turn their guns to point at broken hearts. Safety on. It's still not safe. And when the drink begins to flow, all hope of an intelligent decision goes out the window.

They fuck for old time's sake, fingers gripping a clean white sheet soon dirtied with sweat. They light a cigarette, exchanging spit on the damp white paper that tastes of ash. There is romance where he traces the smooth curve of a hip in the shadows, but the heat melts it away before dawn.

One night passes in this way.

In the morning, they say their goodbyes for the last time as lovers. There is nothing there (he says). There are no tears (they say). The tourist group that passes takes pictures of the defensive wall that will last in their memories forever.


	14. L'appel du vide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L'appel du vide. French. "'The call of the void' is this French expression's literal translation, but more significantly it's used to describe the instinctive urge to jump from high places."

He barely remembers the old linoleum floor of the kitchen, cracking in the corners and graying by the doors. He used to spend hours lying underneath the kitchen table and tracing the faded blue flower patterns on the tile, pretending to be a giant. Pretending that his toys were lost inside a maze. Pretending he was doing something other than getting in the way. His mother would forget about him when he was under there and go about her chores whistling and talking to herself about how if only she could get away, get away.

He thinks it must have soaked into his blood.

When he is two years old, he crawls out from under the table and out the open back door, scooting down the steps and walking, as purposefully as one can get with the drunken gait of toddlerhood, _away._ Into the back field where sometimes he has seen deer through his bedroom window. He remembers, fuzzily, the texture of grass on his bare feet, the smell of dirt. The huge blue sky, vibrant like nothing he has ever experienced before. He does not recall falling asleep, the search, his mother's face when they hand him back. Just the sky, and the clouds, and the great big world.

\---

_Get away, get away. If only I could get away._

The call is something intrinsic. In fourth grade, he walks away from the playground and is halfway to the bus station before they catch him, enough money for a one-way ticket in his pocket, scrounged together from his allowance. It has taken him a very long time, because his mother is no longer working.

"How could you do such a thing?" hisses his grandmother to the back of his head as she spanks him again, her rings leaving bruises on his bare arse. "I'll teach _you_ to run away from responsibility."

That evening he lies under the kitchen table with his schoolbooks and draws moustaches on all the PMs.

\---

When his father walks out, his mother starts to cry all the time. He doesn't really understand why; the man was a nutjob, and ugly besides. Still, her tears refuse to stop. His grandmother makes him get a job at the corner store, but after three weeks of his mates coming in to laugh at his apron he takes to ditching shifts, smoking in the alley behind the butcher's instead. He develops a cough that acts up in the damp and makes friends with a group of older boys. When they all get arrested for stealing a car, he goes back to work.

He graduates school on a rainy day, the blue sky that so attracted him in his youth nowhere to be found. His mother doesn't say anything. His grandmother acts like she expected it. His boss gives him a microscopic raise for his new 'education' and makes him learn how to do inventory as well as checkout. Sometimes he pretends to shoot himself in the mouth with his label gun.

He's hiding behind a bank of heavy metal shelving, smoking and listening to his dull-faced, dull-minded coworkers discussing the latest football gossip when he catches sight of the open door. It's next to the loading dock that's never used, and has always been closed before. He gets up and walks over to it, shielding his eyes. Sunlight gleams off the hoods and fenders of cars parked in the lot out back. A huge blue sky stretches over faded brown buildings and weeds in the sidewalk. He walks away.

\---

"Arthur."

"Yes?" He looks up at the sound of his name, closing his book but leaving his thumb in to keep his place. Eames is standing in the bedroom door, dressed fully though it is Saturday. He keeps shifting his weight back and forth. His knuckles are red, like they've been bitten. "What is it?" Arthur asks, because, after all this time, he knows when Eames is nervous.

"I can't-" Eames begins, and Arthur puts down his book. "I can't stay here any longer. I'm leaving."

Arthur doesn't seem to react, just keeps gazing at Eames with his steady brown eyes. "What?"

"I have to go." And because he's going to stop, to wait, if he says anything more, Eames goes back into the bedroom and zips up his suitcase. Arthur follows, bewildered.

"Where are you going? You have a job?" But Arthur's always been sharp. He stops walking with an intake of breath that seems too loud, much too loud, in the silence. "You're not… _leaving?"_ he asks, finally, as Eames picks up his suitcase. "It's been three years. I thought…"

Eames shakes his head. "I have to go."

"You don't." Arthur places himself squarely upon the threshold. His knuckles are white where he's gripping the doorframe, his one concession to emotion. "We can talk about this."

"There isn't anything to talk about." Eames feels a lump starting in his throat and shakes his head, pushing past Arthur into the living room. He walks to the door, struggling to keep his pace even. It isn't that he doesn't care for Arthur – he does. Perhaps more than he's cared for anything in his entire life. But after three years of waking up to the same face, the same routine, he is finding harder and harder to breathe.

_If only I could get away._

"So it just meant nothing to you." Arthur has crossed his arms, tight as a coiled spring, holding himself together. He has his own problems; Eames has never seen him cry. "I was just another shiny bauble that caught your attention for a time."

It isn't true, but Eames can't stay, so he says "Yes."

"Don't-" comes Arthur's plea, but Eames is already opening the door, sliding out into the great big world. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

He shuts it quietly. The sound of china breaking against wood rings in his ears as he enters the stairwell. He doesn't look back.

\---

For four months he lives life as if he is falling: fast, dangerous, just waiting for the impact. Nothing but blue sky above and below. He starts to smoke again, and to gamble. Money slips through his fingers like water. If his mother could have seen the money, he doubts she would have disowned him like she did, but it really doesn't matter. Right before he left Manchester she told him that he was a mistake, the mistake that brought about the end of her marriage.

He wonders if he's destined to ruin everyone's happiness, including his own.

After all, he isn't happy. He's doing what he's always done, but he is not happy. He thinks of Arthur all the time. He's too much of a coward to call.

Four months. And then he gets a message from Dominic Cobb, a man he hasn't spoken to in almost a year. It says _Arthur's ill. Appendicitis. There were complications. If you don't come back now, don't come back at all._

\---

Room 230.

There are faded blue flowers on the hospital counterpane, and Eames almost doesn't enter, but there's a nurse clacking her way down the hallway behind him and it's well past visiting hours. He steps inside. In the darkness, Arthur looks too pale, spider-hands – pianist's hands, marksman's hands – spread limply before him. There's an IV in one wrist, surrounded by a bruise. Eames wants to kiss it better. The feeling rattles him to his bones.

"Hey," he says, to Arthur's sleeping face. His voice sounds too loud. He sits down on the edge of the bed and takes Arthur's free hand in his. Brown eyes flicker open and immediately become suspicious, though Eames can clearly see how exhausted Arthur is. "Hey," he says again. He licks his lips.

"Back so soon?" Arthur croaks, tugging his hand away. Eames is rightfully stung for a moment, but Arthur is only reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table. Eames fetches it for him, and after Arthur drinks, he lays his hand back into Eames's reach. "I thought you were gone."

"So did I." Eames brushes back Arthur's bangs soothingly. "You should sleep."

Arthur closes his eyes. "Why did you come back?"

"I was worried."

Arthur scoffs lightly. "You weren't." He pokes Eames's palm with a fingernail that's a little too long.

Eames feels the ghost of a smile at his lips. "I didn't find anything out there that was better than you."

"Stay," Arthur commands, and this time he is drifting off. His grip on Eames's fingers relaxes, and Eames picks up the slack.

"I will. All night."

"No." There's a flicker of a dark gaze. "I mean forever."

Eames thinks about the sky. Then he thinks about a warm room, a bed, a nest of covers, shelves of books, burnt toast, long legs. He thinks about spending money on gifts instead of cards, on good food and wine. He thinks about Arthur's lips on his. He thinks about Arthur's face as he closed the apartment door.

Arthur is asleep again, breathing even and soft. Eames kisses his knuckles lightly, careful not to wake him.

"I will," he says. And means it.


	15. Duende

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duende. Spanish. "While originally used to describe a mythical, spritelike entity that possesses humans and creates the feeling of awe of one's surroundings in nature, its meaning has transitioned into referring to 'the mysterious power that a work of art has to deeply move a person.'"

"Arthur," Eames asks, standing beside him in front of the mirror. "Have you been crying?" It's close to ten, but they've left the lights off. Morning sun streams through the privacy curtains and illuminates the bathroom well enough to shave and brush teeth. "Arthur." Eames tries to meet his gaze in the glass, but Arthur isn't looking at him. He is looking down, fixing his tie. His eyes look red, his lips bitten. "Arthur?"

"I'm okay." He finishes with his tie and smooths it down, going out into the bedroom to grab his waistcoat from the bed. Eames follows, leaving his razor by the sink.

"What is it?" He takes Arthur's hand, thumb brushing his gold wedding ring, ten years old now. "Darling?" He cups Arthur's chin, turns his face.

"It's nothing," says Arthur, and his lips curve into a small smile at Eames's disbelieving expression. "I was dreaming. That's all."

"Oh." And for a moment, Eames lets himself remember the days when he met Arthur, both of them in fatigues, ugly under fluorescent lights but all too eager to start. The machine was on the table. What they could achieve underneath was beautiful then, when the drugs weren't making them sick and clammy.

He doesn't remember when he stopped dreaming, but he remembers when it happened to Arthur.

"It's coming back to me," says Arthur. "Finally. That's all." He buttons his waistcoat. "My jacket, James. Would you-? Yes, thank you, hon."

Eames kisses his cheek and goes to wash his face. In ten minutes they will be late for breakfast, and he couldn't have that. Arthur always hates to be late.


	16. Saudade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saudade. Portuguese. "This word 'refers to the feeling of longing for something or someone that you love and which is lost.'"

"We'll be landing in Los Angeles in fifteen minutes," chirps the stewardess. "Hot towel? Do you need customs forms?" Arthur opts for both, wanting to wash away the ridiculous giddiness that had flooded through him when he saw, across the aisle, Dominick Cobb opening his eyes. He's still a little dizzy now, his heart pumping loudly in his ears.

"Thank you." He presses the cloth to his forehead, eyes closed, just breathing. In and out.

_It had worked._

Whether or not the inception held… whether Fischer self-destructed or built himself up from scratch, _Cobb had come back alive._ Arthur is so glad it almost hurts. Perhaps now that Cobb is to return to his children, he will become something like the man whose courage, vitality, and love Arthur had fallen for all those years ago. Perhaps he will become something more than Mal's chalk outline.

When they exit the plane, tense, and head through customs, Arthur has eyes only for Cobb. Everyone is nervous. It was ridiculous to believe Saito is so powerful that he could do this, Arthur thinks, stomach churning. But no alarms sound, no lights flash a warning. Arthur unclenches his fist in his pocket and smiles, really smiles, for the first time in a long few years.

It's lost on the back of Cobb's head, and he won't pretend that doesn't hurt, but he isn't going to complain. He never complains.

At the baggage claim, Cobb drops the claim to his baggage, and Arthur collects his single black suitcase with a wistful feeling. It's odd, suddenly, to miss the running, the grief, the sick-heady feeling of being _this close_ to dying in the basement of a vengeful mark, but he does. Even emotionally crippled, Cobb had still possessed the charisma to draw the best of the best. It was always an adventure. Where was he to go from here?

He doesn't watch as Cobb strides out to the open concourse without a single goodbye, or thank you, or even a glance, because he doesn't want to know what he's missing.

"It's been fun," Arthur murmurs. "I had fun, for a time." Lord knows that inception was a real rush, and, after everything, he's glad he did it. He got in for the thrill and the job hasn't failed to excite him yet. He just can't shake the nagging feeling that now he has nothing to strive for. That's a problem for another day, though, and he has other concerns now. It is likely Cobol still wants his blood, and they won't hesitate to reel him in if he stays in one place for too long. He needs to find a safehouse. One he hasn't been to in a while.

"I suppose I ought to head back to New York," he says to no one, making up his mind. To his empty apartment, closed up when Mal died. The skyscrapers reminded him of her too strongly for him to find any peace of mind there. The association is less vivid now, and the five hours to LaGuardia beat the seven to Bangor.

Arthur sighs, rubbing his temples so hard that it starts to sting. He needs to sleep, a real sleep, and drink some tea. Take some time to relax. Plan his future.

It's just then that a heavy hand drops onto his shoulder suddenly, snapping him out of his musings.

"Saw you standing here all alone," says Eames, of course, lips curved kindly, eyes searching. He looks almost as tired as Arthur, though he carries a deep satisfaction with it. Arthur realizes, belatedly, that Eames must have seen the idea fall into place in Fischer's mind. He wonders if Eames will tell him about it someday. "You okay?"

"Yes," he replies, and it's the truth, or most of it. "I was just thinking about endings. And beginnings."

Eames hums quietly, in acknowledgement or agreement or simply to fill up space. "I see. So you're not waiting for someone?"

"Huh?" He follows Eames's finger in the direction of the concourse, where several people are still standing, holding signs with their clients' names penned on them.

"Not waiting for a ride, I mean."

Arthur considers. He could go out there and flag down a cab, eat lunch at an exclusive restaurant, and head back for a flight to New York in one, maybe two hours. He could fly home and pull the sheets off his living room furniture, eat takeout in front of a TV blaring mindless noise, and fall asleep alone in a cold bed. He could. He could do that.

"I was waiting for you," he says. He takes Eames's hand in his and pulls it from his shoulder, dropping it to hang between them. After a second's pause, he links their fingers experimentally. "You're slow."

 _"Sorry,"_ says Eames, whose carefully blank face betrays more than it hides. He squeezes Arthur's hand cautiously and shifts his weight from heel to heel. His palm is cool and smooth, though the fingers are calloused with writing and his work. "I didn't know."

"Well, now you do," Arthur announces. _And so do I._ And because he never gives anything but his all, Arthur tugs Eames's arm until he is walking beside him, stepping out into the sunlit hall and heading for the escalators that will take them out to LA. It's a beautiful day, he can see, and he takes some comfort in that, letting out a soft breath. "Come on, now. Come on, now, darling. Come _on."_


	17. Dépaysement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dépaysement. French. "The feeling that comes from not being in one's home country."
> 
> Violence.

It's a brilliantly bright day when Eames throws open the curtains, warm sunlight streaming inside to dapple across the counter, floor, and kitchen table. Patches of rainbow slide back and forth gently on the wall, cast by the heart-shaped hanging prism in the window. It had been an impulse buy several years ago at a touristy shop in Florida. Arthur had laughed when Eames presented it to him, sort of fond and sort of mean, straddling the invisible line that Eames was just now realizing utterly defined him.

"You're going to be late," he calls back into the bedroom, where Arthur is sleeping across the whole bed, tangled in the sheets and drooling in an attractively unattractive manner. It makes him human, which reassures Eames on nights when he can't get to sleep. "Wake up now, and I'll make you a fried egg."

There is a muttered threat of violence in reply. Eames chuckles and reaches for the frying pan in the cabinet under the side counter, only to find that it isn't there. Instead, there is a colander and the old, dented pot without a lid that he uses to make spaghetti. He frowns. "You've been moving my things again, haven't you?" he asks, and goes searching. The frying pan ends up being over the toaster, in with the saucepan and the measuring cups. "This doesn't go up here."

Arthur, just now shuffling in, lean and naked but for his boxers, looks blank for a second before yawning hugely. "What?"

"The frying pan goes underneath, over there." It's not anything like a real problem, but Eames is still annoyed. Arthur has been living with him for three months and hasn't bothered to learn the layout of the kitchen yet.

Arthur hums, thinking. "Ah, yes. Sorry."

"You must still be tired," says Eames, who had been anticipating a snarky reply about _he's the one with OCD, which would blow their colleagues' minds._ Arthur shrugs and sits at the table, kicking his heels against the rungs of his chair. His hair is curly this morning, and he hasn't combed it. It falls appealingly across his neck and Eames forgets his ire. "One egg or two, darling?"

"Two, please." Arthur busies himself with peeling an orange from their fruit bowl. He strips the rind off in a spiral, unbroken from one pole to the other. Eames watches him throw it in the garbage, eyes lingering, and then butters the frying pan.

"Sure." The eggs in the fridge are free-range, local eggs, not because either of them have a particular commitment to animal welfare, but because they're sold at the closest grocery store to the flat. Eames picks up two of them in one hand and cracks them smoothly against the edge of the pan. He fries them over-easy and puts them on a plate with rye toast. Arthur gets up to get a glass of tomato juice and a jar of apple jelly.

"You don't like apple jelly," Eames says when Arthur is halfway through his second piece of toast. It's so strange. He's seen Arthur eat apple jelly every morning for the past three months, whenever he has toast.

"Yes I do," says Arthur, and he licks his bottom lip free of crumbs. "I always-"

"Right. Yes, of course. I must have been thinking of…" But he doesn't know what he'd been thinking of. After another moment of shifting under Arthur's gaze, he turns back to his paper. Gas prices are rising again. They always seem to be on the rise. And today's editorials are… "Arthur." Eames puts aside the paper. "Do you remember when we were at that Harvest Faire with Cobb and the tykes?"

Arthur nods, finishing off the last of his eggs. "Yes. I still can't believe you tried that spicy lentil soup. I thought you'd start breathing fire." He smiles crookedly, teasing.

"I wanted to buy you a jar of apple jelly," says Eames. "It came in an apple-shaped jar with a green ribbon like leaves around the stopper. Remember?"

Arthur looks concerned now, a tiny crease forming between his eyebrows. "I remember. Why?"

"You told me you would never eat any. You told me you hated apple jelly." Clear as day he could recall Arthur's wrinkled nose and warm brown eyes. The way he stuck out his tongue to make the children laugh when he said "Apple's no good. We want grape jelly, don't we Phil?" and had picked out a jar of purple preserves. That had happened.

Arthur reaches across the table and lays a hand over his. "If we don't shower now, we'll really be late."

\---

"How was your day?" asks Arthur, throwing his coat over the back of the couch and leaning down for a kiss. He smells of his office, of crisp paper and coffee and ink. Underneath, he smells like Arthur, masculine but subtle, a hint of soap and smoke. "Did you finish it today?"

"No." Eames sighs good-naturedly. "I ended up wandering around the studio for a good three hours listening to music and staring at the canvas." He kisses Arthur again. Arthur tastes like smoke, too, but it's wrong. He tastes like Eames's cigarettes. "You took my Chesterfields this morning?"

"I wanted a change," says Arthur, pulling away. He comes around the couch, dropping his briefcase onto the coffee table and sitting down beside Eames. Eames can't stop staring at the briefcase. It doesn't look like Arthur's usual briefcase. It's thinner. It's a case for documents. It's not…

"Arthur," he starts, aware that he must sound crazy. At the same time, Arthur says "Eames." Eames stops talking.

"Eames, you've been acting strange lately," Arthur says. His hands are warm when he lays them against Eames's chest. It's what Eames wanted to say. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? I don't want to go to work knowing that you're sick here." He pets Eames's hair, sort of fond and sort of mean, like he thinks Eames's can't take care of himself.

"I'm totally fine, Arthur. I'm smashing." Arthur's fingers are long and smooth against Eames's as he threads their hands together. The nails are rounded and clean. Only, _Arthur chews his nails when he's upset,_ and it had been a difficult case he'd been working on for the firm this past week. They should be bitten to the quick.

His knuckle doesn't have the tiny scar sustained from punching Eames in the mouth during their first fight behind Yusuf's bar.

There's a sharp rap at the front door, startling Eames into letting go of Arthur, who leans back. The muffled voice of their next-door neighbor Meredith calls, "Everything all right in there?"

Eames opens his mouth and Arthur says "Shit." He takes a gun out from somewhere under his belt and points it at Eames, whose mouth has gone dry. He's never been on the wrong end of one of these before and he can't say that it feels peachy. He didn't even know Arthur _owned_ a gun. _What would a lawyer need with a gun?_

"Darling…" He raises his hands. "You..."

"Me," declares Arthur. He thumbs off the safety, or so Eames assumes, because all of a sudden Arthur looks even more deadly serious than before. "Sit tight, Mr. Eames. This will all be over soon enough."

"I don't know what you're talking about," says Eames. Meredith is pounding on the door and Eames thinks _call the police!_ "Arthur, what are you doing?"

"Succeeding." Meredith's pounding has become the steady thwack of a baseball bat against wood. There's the murmur of voices as people leave their rooms to see what's going on, then another pounding joins the first. Arthur curses again and gestures Eames up with the pistol, making him walk backward into the kitchen, farther away from the hall and help. "We only need a few more minutes." His phone buzzes.

On the counter behind Eames is a cutting board and a knife. He'd been cutting up the rest of the oranges into slices. He likes to eat oranges already sliced because it is neater, not as sticky. One doesn't have to worry about stubborn orange rind clinging desperately in tiny chunks to the orange. Eames doesn't have Arthur's patience. Arthur always peels his oranges in strips.

"Hello," says Arthur, free hand on his phone. "What?"

Eames puts the knife through his face.

It's horrific. Arthur drops the gun and screams, hands coming up to pull the blade from his cheeks. The flesh separates like he's in some bad zombie flick, revealing the barest glimpse of teeth through the hole. His tongue is bleeding, too. Eames backs away, but not before he bends down to pick up the Beretta 9mm. He wastes no time shooting Arthur in the chest as the man sputters angrily and dribbles blood and saliva down his chin. A chin that doesn't look much like Arthur's anymore. Nothing about him looks like Arthur anymore. Eames chokes back bile as what he thought was his boyfriend turns into a completely different man before his eyes. He must be going crazy.

It's gone dark outside. The walls start to shake as the creature – the shapeshifter – whatever it is – _was_ – falls to the ground and is silent. Out in the hallway, Meredith roars with rage, and so do the rest of the neighbors. The front door splinters. Someone has an axe.

"It's bedlam, fucking bedlam," Eames says, voice shaking like it hasn't since primary school. He whips the gun up toward the hall where Mrs. O'Hare, the septuagenarian landlady, is climbing into the flat, hands raised like claws. The others are pushing at the door behind her, tearing it out of its frame.

The overhead light fixture makes a high-pitched whine right before it falls on Eames's head. He hears the Beretta go off but doesn't feel his hand spasm. Then he doesn't breathe anymore.


	18. Hyggelig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hyggelig. Danish. "Its 'literal' translation into English gives connotations of a warm, friendly, cozy demeanor, but it's unlikely that these words truly capture the essence of a hyggelig; it's likely something that must be experienced to be known."

The soft sound of tree branches rustling in the breeze broke the silence, the leaves waving back and forth throwing a dappled carpet of afternoon sunlight over the room. Somewhere, a bird burst into a rapid conversation with its neighbor until they both flew off with a patter of wings. The scent of cut grass wafted warmly inside, covering the morning smells of bacon and butter. Arthur leaned down slowly to pick up a receipt for groceries that had blown onto the tile.

"This is… quite the day," Eames said from behind him, finally stepping out of the threshold and closing the door softly behind him. He joined Arthur in the center of the kitchen, almost reaching out to touch his arm but thinking better of it at the last second. There was another gust of wind that lifted a curl of Arthur's hair. It slipped over his ear, but he ignored it. Glass clinked on the counter. Down the street, a lawnmower rumbled to life.

"I'll check the bedroom." Arthur let the receipt slip from his hands, lips thin, and turned to go down the hallway. "You look in the basement." The remains of the kitchen window crunched under his shoes. "Be careful."

"Of course. You, too." Eames opened the linens drawer and found that the Browning 9mm that he usually kept under the dish towels was missing, the towels in question rumpled and out of order. He opened the cutlery drawer instead and armed himself with a steak knife before making his way downstairs. He passed the half-open bag of red potatoes. The sack of apples that he had been going to bake into a pie had been knocked over and had spilled down the steps and onto the cement floor. He kicked one absently into a corner as he left the shelter of the stairwell and investigated, knife at the ready, the rest of the unfinished room.

Whoever had been there was gone now, though their metaphorical fingerprints had been left on every surface. The card table that Arthur used as his desk when he was drafting blueprints for a new project had been upended to reach the file cabinets beyond. Though they mainly contained the day-to-day financial records of the house, they too had been rifled through. Eames inspected the folders within for obvious thefts automatically, but his mind was elsewhere.

When he returned upstairs, he found Arthur in the hallway. In one hand he held his Glock, but the safety was on and it was pointing at the floor. In his other, he held a photograph they'd taken shortly after moving in: the two of them were sitting on the back porch, innocent glasses of lemonade in hand, smiling self-consciously at the camera. Back then, it had been weird to be so in the open. Arthur was looking down at it with an unreadable expression.

This time Eames did lay a hand on his shoulder. "The basement safe was still sound. I took the documents out of it."

"Good. That's good." Yellow sun streamed hazily through the curtains, illuminating lazy, spinning dust motes. There was a boot print on the hardwood that Eames hadn't noticed before. He frowned. "They took the PASIV, though. How soon can you get us out of the country?"

"Three hours, love." He kept his voice gentle. "I'll need to make a few calls. Can you throw together a suitcase for me?"

"I suppose." Arthur put down the picture frame. "It hasn't been _so_ long, has it?" It wasn't really a question and Eames didn't answer, just pulled out his cell phone.

"Where do you want to go?"

Arthur scowled. "I don't care."

\---

Half an hour later, Arthur slammed the trunk of the car that Eames had bought him as a housewarming gift and climbed into the driver's seat. "Hurry up, will you?"

"Sure, hon." Eames tucked the photo into his breast pocket and then slipped his key, perhaps pointlessly, into the lock for the last time. It shut with a click that had never sounded so unsatisfying and he sighed. He rested his forehead briefly against the frame and stared down at the worn welcome mat under his feet. "I'm coming."


	19. Ya'aburnee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'aburnee. Arabic. "Both morbid and beautiful at once, this incantatory word means "You bury me," a declaration of one's hope that they'll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them."

Arthur ran his tongue over his teeth and tasted blood-metal-dirt, the same taste he'd grown used to over the past two hours. His tongue and lips felt gritty, his eyes dry and raw. His knuckles were aching from his grip on his Glock; one of them had split earlier and stung now, an annoyance. His breath was coming too fast. His heart was pounding erratically.

He had never felt so alive.

From across the room by the door there was the faint sound of a radio squawking. Calling for reinforcements. Arthur's face lit up with a fierce grin. "There're more coming, Eames. You all right?"

Off to the left, behind an overturned desk, Eames muttered something unflattering about the boundless energy of youth. Arthur scoffed.

"Just because you're looking at thirty doesn't mean you can start pulling that shit." He slipped the safety off and laughed a little. "But I'm serious. You all right?"

"Few nicks here and there, but nothing I can't handle." The nose of Eames's Browning M2 peeked over the desk. "They still asleep?"

Arthur shot a look over his shoulder. Stretched out on the floor, heads pillowed on their suit jackets, Mr. Cobb and the client whose mind he was training were still under, faces smooth. "Yeah. Man, I guess this guy wasn't really paranoid after all."

"Mal ought to have dug that up," Eames sighed. There was a bang on the barricaded door and a muffled curse from outside. "I should have stayed in Mumbai."

"Then it wouldn't have been a very good birthday for me, would it?" declared Arthur, aiming at the door.

Eames was quiet as another clang reverberated around the warehouse. "Arthur… If we don't get thr-"

"Oh, no, none of that crap," snapped Arthur. He rolled his eyes at Eames. "I'm not the sentimental type."

Eames frowned. "Well, then one wonders what type you are. Not the romantic, surely, and, after this, I wouldn't be able to say the sensible type without lying through my teeth."

Arthur laughed. "You'll just have to live to find out, won't you Mr. Eames?"

The hinges exploded with a protesting shriek and the door fell to the floor. Eames let his mouth twitch into a smile as he pulled the trigger.

"I guess I will."


End file.
